


Mirage

by astudyinotters753



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Excessive Drinking, M/M, Minor Violence, Not Really Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-13 20:12:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15372429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinotters753/pseuds/astudyinotters753
Summary: Hank feels the way the streets look, a few days after it’s snowed.  The beautiful novelty of it has worn off, half of it has melted, and whatever remains has turned into a brown, silt slush where it sits at the side of the streets.  As he sits at his kitchen table, staring down the remains of last night’s binge, Hank feels every bit of his 53 years.  He’s aware of the way his back never seems to stop twinging, no matter how much sleep he gets.   He’s aware of the way he’s never quite able to fully recover from his hangovers before he gets mind-numbingly drunk again.  He’s aware of the way his home has never quite felt the same since after the Revolution.





	Mirage

It starts with a sunrise in the early spring, where the outside air cannot decide if it wants to be warm or cold, but it burns your lungs all the same. Inside his house, Hank is stagnant. He watches as dust particles dance in sunbeams as they flit through his dirty windows, marching in rows along his hardwood floor to tickle at his worn-out feet. He knows, if he was not home alone – save for the company of his beloved Sumo – that he would likely still be blissfully asleep, wrapped around another in his bed. That, if he was not alone, he probably would not have spent the night before finishing one bottle of whisky and working his way into a second. That, if he was not alone, the living room windows would be clean and open, and that biting, early March air would be sweeping out the stale mustiness that’s bloomed in his solitude.

  
Hank feels the way the streets look, a few days after it’s snowed. The beautiful novelty of it has worn off, half of it has melted, and whatever remains has turned into a brown, silt slush where it sits at the side of the streets. As he sits at his kitchen table, staring down the remains of last night’s binge, Hank feels every bit of his 53 years. He’s aware of the way his back never seems to stop twinging, no matter how much sleep he gets. He’s aware of the way he’s never quite able to fully recover from his hangovers before he gets mind-numbingly drunk again. He’s aware of the way his home has never quite felt the same since after the Revolution.

  
Although it’s been nearly four months since Markus’s protests, Detroit is still a shell of its former self. Houses that once held families and androids alike stand abandoned. The unemployment rate continues to climb with each passing month. Everywhere Hank manages to go is empty, just like his house, just like the bottles that litter the counters in his kitchen.

  
From his spot in the kitchen, Hank can barely hear the moment his alarm clock goes off, one of the generic morning news shows is talking about how the government is still working to create a valid bill of rights for androids. It’s the same thing he’s been waking up to since late November, and all in all, Hank is just tired of the whole ordeal. Bored of hearing the same things over and over again, he hauls himself stiffly from the table, shuffles into his bedroom, and turns off the alarm. Raising a hand to his head, Hank scrubs at his beard – greasy and unkempt – as he tries to will the pounding in his skull away. He knows, realistically, that the shower he’s going to take won’t wash away his pain, but that doesn’t stop him from hoping to find relief under the hot spray.

  
His shift at the precinct is monotonous. He files old paperwork, digs through some old cold cases, and works on pumping out paperwork between downing mug after mug of lukewarm coffee. Desk duty, Captain Fowler had called it after his last disciplinary meeting, but Hank knew what it really was. Punishment. Purgatory. A reality in which one more disciplinary action this year will result in his permanent removal and early retirement from the force.

 

He’s tempted, for a moment, to just get up and walk out. Leave everything behind. He entertains the thought for a moment, of going home and packing up just what he needs to survive, of loading it all into his car with Sumo to leave town. He doesn’t know where he would go or what he would do, but knows the air flowing through the cracked window of his car would bite less the further he got from the city.

  
Hank is pulled from his daydream when Gavin bursts through the doors to the office. He’s as loud and obnoxious as ever, and spewing some anti-android sentiments to anyone who can hear him. Hank clenches his jaw and tries to focus on not tackling the asshole to the floor to beat his face in time with the rising throbbing in his head. But, tempting as it the picture is, he doesn’t act on his desires. He listens to the little voice that perks up in the back of his head, even though it’s almost more painful to do so. He takes a measured sip of his coffee, counts in his head from ten to zero, and resumes his work typing out reports for the cold cases he’s done his best to analyze.

  
Before he knows it, another two months have passed by in a blur. The air outside has gone from sharp to damp, and Hank isn’t sure which he’d prefer. It doesn’t really matter, he thinks, in the grand scheme of things. After all, everything else is mostly the same. He still drinks too much and sleeps too little. He still makes his way through the motions of his day like he’s a goddamned android. He’s still left to rot alone in his little house. The only upside to it all is that he’s finally allowed to get his feet wet again, and is brought in as a second pair of eyes for the first in what will be a string of android hate crimes.

  
They start out small, androids turn up at the precinct with abrasions, broken limbs, small chemical burns. There’s not much Hank and his department can do for them besides take their statements and direct them to the nearest CyberLife repair station. The laws protecting androids haven’t officially been approved yet, so legally, Hank’s hands are tied. What before could be classified as vandalism or destruction of property now is just a ball of smoke in the air. According to the law, these androids no longer belong to anyone, nor do they belong to themselves. It’s enough to make Hank even more bristly and coarse than usual. But, he does what he can to work out the clues left behind, to solve the case so that when he can legally do something about it, he will.

  
The attacks escalate as spring blossoms into summer. The androids that show up to report new attacks are few and far between – the rest that are victims either don’t make it, or go into hiding. They are damaged more and speak less. Now, they cannot remember the face of the person who harmed them. They cannot remember where they were or what they were doing. They, sometimes, cannot even remember their name or who they are. They look up at Hank, their eyes wide and scared, as they slur their broken, mechanical pleas for his help. He stands firmly away from them, doesn’t sink to his knees to hold their hands, or brush their thirium-stained hair away from their faces, or tell them that things will be fine. He just watches, over and over, as they shut down due to excessive, irreparable trauma.

  
On these nights, he goes home and feeds Sumo. He sinks into the dingy cushions of his couch with as much liquor as he can carry. He ignores the several piled up microwave dinner packages that are stacked up in his freezer. He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t dream when he sleeps. He just drinks and drinks and drinks until he passes out. Captain Fowler never reprimands him when he rolls into the precinct after noon the days after. He knows, just as Hank knows, that his time at the Detroit Police Department has an expiration date, and that Hank is hurtling himself towards that date as fast as he can.

  
On the nights where he doesn’t pass out drunk, Hank remembers. He remembers what his life was like before. Before he made Lieutenant. Before the accident. Before Connor. He doesn’t like the nights where he remembers. He doesn’t like seeing it happen all over again.

  
It always starts with a car. He’s always the one driving, and he’s always going somewhere he’s never been before. It’s always winter, and there’s always someone beside him. They talk. He can’t remember about what, but they always talk. Whenever he turns his head to look to his right, it’s always Connor’s face staring back at him; the right corner of his lip is always turned up in a half-smile. Sometimes, Cole is seated on his lap, staring back up at him with big, brown eyes and a gap-toothed grin. It always ends with him, alone, surrounded by a sea of purple blood. He always wakes up in a cold sweat, gasping for air. He always wakes up alone.

  
In his house, Hank is surrounded by ghosts. He is haunted by the mangled shards of a failed relationship, haunted by the death of his son, haunted by the absence of the fucking android sent by CyberLife. Even Sumo, who has been with him through so many things, seems affected by how stale, how stagnant things have become.

  
Summer crumples into fall, and the days get shorter. Hank knows, that as the air gets sweeter, he will spend less and less of his time sober. August brings about the induction of fifteen new amendments to the Bill of Rights – specifically designed to cater to androids. With it, brings an influx of legwork to the precinct and Hank finds himself working overtime. He spends as much of his waking moments making arrests and navigating interrogations, finally going after all those hate crime instigators that felt high and mighty in the summer.

  
It stops, as many things do for Hank, sudden and abrupt and in the middle of a crime scene. One minute, he’s talking to some android victims - they’ve been roughed up a little, nothing too strenuous - and the next he turns the corner into a room and sees nothing but android remains on the floor. Instantly, the breath is stolen from his lungs as he falls to his knees next to the body of the android leaking thirium from several bullet wounds to his chest. In this moment, Hank cannot tell that this android has red hair and is a AV500. In this moment, all he can see is his Connor.

  
His Connor, who had been so brave and so gentle as Detroit was settling after the Revolution. His Connor, who had spent exactly one night in his bed, curled up in Hank’s arms, his LED flashing a gentle blue as they talked until the sun rose. His Connor, who had gone out to buy groceries, and had never returned.

  
A mistake, Captain Fowler had said, when Hank had shown up to work the next day. There had been a mistake, and Connor had been caught in the crossfires. All it took was one mistake, and Connor, his Connor, was gone.

  
When Hank is forcibly pulled from the crime scene, it’s with the instructions to go home and rest. He does not remember how he gets home, nor how he is put in his bed, but he does remember the disappointed frown on Captain Fowler’s face and the feeling of the paper order for paid time off crinkling in his palm.

  
September comes and goes, and Hank turns 54. He spends exactly no time on his birthday sober, and that’s just fine with him. He passes out on the couch with Sumo’s head in his lap and wakes up to a lap full of drool and the worst hangover he’s ever had. He spends the three weeks that stretch between Cole’s birthday and deathday at the same level of inebriation.

  
The morning of October 12, Hank does what he should have done nearly four years ago. He empties out every bottle of alcohol in his possession, including the now-vintage bottle of champagne that he’d kept from the New Year’s Eve party where he’d announced to all his friends and family that he was going to be a father. He spends the rest of the morning cleaning up, first the house and then himself. He brushes Sumo’s fur, and washes the caked-on mud from his paws, and makes sure there’s plenty of food in his bowl. He sweeps up the floors, and wipes down the countertops, and tackles the last of the dishes in the sink. He cuts his own hair, and trims up his beard, and showers under water so hot that his skin is red and blotchy when he emerges.

  
From his closet, Hank pulls out the best outfit he owns, he combs his hair, and dresses himself with shaky, wobbling hands. He knots a novelty-print necktie around his neck. He pulls on dress shoes that haven’t seen the light of day in years. When he’s finally dressed, Hank stands in the kitchen and looks at his empty, little house. He lingers for a moment, as if expecting one of his memories to materialize and walk through the room to settle on the couch, but it doesn’t happen. He knows it won’t happen - that it never happens, but that doesn’t stop the bitter flavor of disappointment from welling up in his throat.

  
Hank takes a minute to shake his head and take a steadying breath. He knows it doesn’t do him any well to dwell on the things that used to be. Not like this, as if Cole will come running through the back door, a fresh grass stain rubbed into the knees of his pants, to beg him to come play soccer with him. As if he turns around, he’ll find Connor putting away the groceries he was supposed to get all those months ago. His ghosts may not always be in his house, but he always knows where to find them, and right now, Hank is going to start with Cole.

  
The first thing he notices, when he gets to the cemetery, is that someone has been to Cole’s grave. The area around it has been swept of any lingering dirt, and there are fresh flowers propped up against the headstone. He stares at the arrangement, just a little too long, until his eyes become blurry with unshed tears. This is not the type of bouquet his ex would have sent to be delivered. Nor is it the type of bouquet that Hank could afford. He lingers at his son’s grave for a few minutes, stumbling out half-formed phrases.

  
He’s always been bad at this, since the day Cole was buried four years ago. He never knows what to say to the boy he loved most in the entire world, especially after the last works Hank spoke to him were lies. His eyebrows crease and it’s like he’s there again, limping after the gurney, trying to cling to his son’s small, bloodied hand, telling him that everything would be all right, that Daddy was there, and nothing was going to hurt him anymore. He’d only been able to whisper to Cole that he loved him after the gurney had pulled away from his grip - he wasn’t sure if he’d heard it. The next time he was able to hold Cole in his arms, it was too late. He was already gone.

  
When Hank has nothing left to say, he does what he does best and leaves. He makes his rounds to some of his usual annual haunts - the pizzeria that Cole had begged to go to for his sixth birthday, the bakery that he’d bought Cole’s birthday cake from, the park that was halfway between his elementary school and the house. He lingers there, in the park, slightly swaying on a swing for what feels like hours. It’s only when the sun is starting to set and the sky ignites red and orange, that he starts to head home.

  
It’s dark by the time he walks through his front door, his field of vision lit only by a weak light coming from the hallway off the kitchen. He removes his shoes carefully, and drops his coat on the back of a kitchen chair before moving into the living room to sit on the couch. He finds it strange that Sumo is not there to greet him, but doesn’t give it much of a passing thought. All thoughts of his dog quickly fade from his mind as he turns on the television to listen to the nightly news. He’s due to start back at his job next week, and he feels like he needs to get caught up on everything he’s missed over the last month.

  
The newscaster only gets part-way through her story before Hank feels a soft light spill across his face. He turns, and chases the image, expecting it to fade away like it has a hundred times before. Apparitions, he thinks, absentmindedly staring at the lighted silhouette of something in front of the refrigerator. It’s nothing more than just his ghosts coming back. With a heavy sigh, Hank turns back to his show and turns the volume up. Maybe if it’s loud enough, it’ll help distract him from his imagination.

  
A moment later, Hank’s paranoia spikes. The light in the kitchen gets brighter, and Hank mutes his show for a moment. He waits, counts down from ten to one again in his head, trying to keep control of his breathing. Then, just as he’s about to turn back to his show, he hears the lone, squeaky floorboard creak in his kitchen.

  
Slowly, he turns towards the kitchen again, his hand flying to pat around his chest for his gun holster. He watches as the figure in the kitchen rifles through the fridge, several bottles clinking together as they rummage about. “Who’s there?” Hank calls out, his voice rough and gravelly from disuse. He hasn’t spoken to anyone else since his birthday.

  
The figure turns around and flashes Hank a small, but cheerful smile. “Lieutenant,” it speaks. “Sorry I’m late.”

  
Hank freezes in his spot and glares at the figure standing in his kitchen like it owns the damn place. He knows that voice, has dreamed about that voice every night for nearly a year. This is clearly just the next step to his delusions. He must have imagined this scene a thousand times, clinging to the fantasy as if it was the only thing preventing him from losing his sanity entirely. He’d done the same thing after Cole passed, he still does it, if he’s honest with himself, and it never quite helps in the way he wants.

  
“Lieutenant,” the figure speaks again, the blue light on the side of its head flickering yellow for the briefest of moments before falling back into that soothing blue Hank loves so much. “Your heart rate and your breathing rate have both elevated exponentially. Perhaps it would be wise if you would-”

  
“Get out of my house,” Hank interrupts, eyes darting around the kitchen in search of something he could turn into a weapon. “You’re dead. You’re not real. And I’m tired of you showing up all the time.”

  
The figure takes a step back and the eyebrows on its face furrow. “But Lieutenant,” he counters. “I’m real. I’m home. I promised I’d come back-”

  
“No!” Hank interrupts again, slowly creeping forward. “You were out getting groceries. There was an accident. Fowler said you’d been shut down. There’s no way you’re standing in my kitchen.”

  
Before the figure can reply, Hank lunges for the light switch at the mouth of the hallway and the kitchen blooms in light. He takes a moment, heaves a breath in and out of his lungs, and then turns to face what he thinks, what he hopes, is an empty kitchen.

  
When Hank opens his eyes, the figure is still standing there, plain as day, with a package of what looks to be frozen vegetables in his hand. “Lieutenant,” he says, his voice soft and somewhat pained. “I believe you’re having a panic attack.”

  
Hank gawks at him while he tries to wrap his mind around the words that he’s just heard. “A panic attack,” he repeats, saying the words slowly as if they’re new to him. “You think I’m having a panic attack.”

  
“Yes, Lieutenant. I think it would be in your best interest to sit down for a bit,” the figure replies.

  
As if on autopilot, Hank bypasses the kitchen table and heads into his bedroom. He unlocks his gun from his safe, adds ammunition into the barrel, and heads back into the kitchen. The figure sees him, his LED immediately whirring to yellow, as he raises his gun to point it at the figure’s head.

  
“You know,” Hank starts, slowly creeping towards the figure, “I see you do this every night.”

  
“Every night?” the figure questions. “But Lieutenant-”

  
“Every goddamn night,” Hank interrupts. “And every night when I turn on the kitchen light, you always fade away into the dark.” He pauses to take the safety off of his gun.  
“So why is it, that today of all days, that I turn on the light and you’re still here, huh? You’re not Connor. You can’t be Connor. You’re just another one of those goddamned ghosts. So why are you still here?”

  
“I’m not a ghost,” the figure says, cautiously stepping towards Hank. “I’m Connor. And I’m here because I came back, Lieutenant. Just like I told you I would.”

  
“Bullshit!” Hank yells, startling the figure in his tracks. “Connor died.”

  
“No,” the figure replies, taking another measured step forward. “I’m not dead. I’m right here, Lieutenant.”

  
In the next moment, three things happen so quickly, Hank can barely process it. First, the figure lunges at him. Second, Hank’s gun goes off and misses, shooting a crack into the window of his back door. Third, the figure winds his arms around Hank and they both fall to the floor, wrapped together.

  
“I’m real, Hank,” the figure murmurs, holding him securely. “I’m sorry it took so long for me to come back.”

  
The figure against him feels so solid and warm. He can hear what he thinks is a thirium pump whirring where his head is pressed against the figure’s chest. Hank’s gun clatters to the ground and he carefully puts his arms around the figure’s waist. He’s so real that, for a moment, Hank believes.

  
“Connor?” he croaks, his voice tight in his throat. “Connor.”

 

“I was attacked on my way back from the grocery store,” Connor offers. “I nearly shut down, lying there on the street, thinking I’d never get to see you again.”

  
“Then what happened?” Hank asks, his hands fisting into the fabric of Connor’s CyberLife issued jacket.

  
“I was picked up by some CyberLife employees. They took me back to a workshop to repair me,” Connor starts. “When I woke up, they informed me that we were no longer in Detroit, but would not disclose our current location. I kept trying to leave, but was detained. I was only released a week ago.”

  
“A week ago?” Hank murmurs. “Where did you end up?”

  
“Arizona,” Connor replies. “It was horribly dry and sandy. You would have hated it.”

  
Hank coughs a quiet laugh into Connor’s chest and holds him a little bit tighter. They continue to sit there on the floor for a few more moments, Hank doing his best to just focus of the way Connor feels in his arms. He notes how rough his jacket is, how peculiar he smells - like stale bus air, how firm and solid and real he feels. He doesn’t ever want to let go, doesn’t ever want to risk losing Connor again.

  
“I thought you were dead,” he breathes, his voice catching at the end of his words. He knows that he’s clinging desperately to Connor now, that he’s acting a little more pathetically than he wants. But he still can’t come to terms with the fact that Connor is really here, really wrapped up with him on the hardwood floor of his kitchen, with his dumb curly hair falling into his eyes, and his dumb thirium pump beating beneath Hank’s cheek.

  
“I thought I was going to die,” Connor adds, shifting his position so he can rub small circles into the space between Hank’s shoulder blades. “But, it takes a lot more than a small hate crime to take me away from you, Lieutenant. I’m afraid that you are stuck with me. If I can stay, that is.”

  
“Of course you can stay,” Hank says, pulling back from the embrace just enough to get a good look at Connor’s face. “You’d be crazy to think anything else. You’re not going away again.”

  
“No, I’m not,” Connor confirms, leaning down to press his forehead against Hank’s. He feels him pull in a shaky breath through his nose and hold it. A moment later, that same breath hisses out of Hank’s mouth, a warm stream against his cheek. “I promise you, Lieutenant, that I will do everything I can so that I remain by your side.”

  
Hanks eyes open and lock with Connor’s. “Connor,” he says, pulling back a little bit, “you called me Hank.”

  
Connor feels his thirium pump whir a little faster than normal, and his cheeks feel full and warm under Hank’s stare. “I did,” he says, after a moment. “I felt it was most effective in getting your attention. I will refrain from using it in the future if it causes you distress.”

  
Hank hums as he thinks, then shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “You’ve slept in my bed, kid. You can call me Hank.”

 

The corner of Connor’s mouth ticks up at Hanks words and he nods once. “Of course, Hank,” he says. “Shall I make dinner? It’s been a while since you’ve eaten anything.”

  
“Nothing since lunch,” he confirms, remaining kneeled on the floor while Connor stands up. He feels thoroughly worn out, like a dishrag that’s been squeezed dry.

  
“And yet, you’re not hungry?” Connor asks.

  
Hank shakes his head and continues to stare, slack-jawed at Connor. He still can’t quite believe that he’s here, standing in his kitchen, looking like some sort of angel.

  
Connor bends down again, and slings an arm around the Hank’s back to hook under his arm. Carefully, he hoists Hank to his feet and helps guide him to the bedroom, easing him down on the corner of the bed. He works in silence, hands ghosting through Hank’s dresser for a clean sleeping shirt and lounge pants. When he finds what he needs, he turns back to Hank, and helps him change.

  
The buttons on his shirt go quickly, and before he knows it, Hank is having his arms guided into the new shirt, his legs prodded into the lounge pants. When Hank is sufficiently dressed, Connor returns to Hank’s dresser for a moment, before he pulls out another set of casual clothes.

  
There, in the dark of the room, illuminated only by the stale, yellow lights of his hallway, Hank watches as Connor sheds his uniform. Perfect, pale skin is revealed as he peels off layer after layer, and, as he turns to reach for new clothing, Hank can count the small cluster of moles on his hip, can see the dusting of freckles that spread across the breadth of his shoulders.

  
He is struck, not for the first time, by Connor’s beauty, by how perfectly imperfect he is. It would have been so easy, he thinks, for CyberLife to make a generic model, to give Connor the same, mass-produced body shape as any of the other more popular male androids, to not have spent what surely added up to thousands of dollars and hours on cosmetic features. But, he cannot deny that in this moment, he is so thankful for each and every spot of color on Connor’s skin, so thankful for how incredibly rumpled and gentle and human he looks.

  
Hank is pulled from his musing when the bed dips beside him, Connor’s hand reaching over to blanket his own. He hears Connor call his name, so softly, it reminds him of all the times he’s imagined Connor’s presence. Before he can respond to anything the android has said, he’s being guided back and up onto the bed. He rolls on his side, and immediately, Connor is there. He blinks slowly as Connor leans in to his chest, as he guides one of Hank’s arms around his waist, as he tucks his head beneath Hank’s chin.

  
It’s so horribly similar to the last time they did this, with Connor cradled in Hank’s arms. He knows, as much as he probably needs the rest, that there’s a very low chance that he’ll sleep at all during the night. He’s too scared he’ll wake up in the morning to an empty bed, too scared to find out that Connor, his Connor is still only a mirage.

  
Connor seems to sense his aversion to sleep, so he does what he does best, and talks to Hank about everything he can. He talks about how Sumo had greeted him at the door, and hardly left his side until he heard Hank come in the door. How the clerk at the grocery store had nearly jumped a display in order to come over and hug him because she was so excited to see he was alive. How Arizona is so drastically different than Detroit, and how he much prefers the cold and the rain and the snow to the searing, dry, sandy heat of the desert. Hank finally passes out in the middle of a story about one of the dogs Connor met on his trip back, as the sun is starting to tint the edges of Connor’s hair a rosy gold.

  
When Hank wakes, only a few hours later, it’s to an empty bed. He slowly sits up, swings his feet out of bed, and scrubs at his face. Bleary-eyed, he stares at the clock at the side of his bed for a few moments, trying to piece everything together. Illusion or not, he thinks as he stares down the offensive, red numbers, at least he has another beautiful image of Connor to treasure. Unable to lift himself from his bed, Hank cradles his head in his hands, and lets himself drift.

  
No more than a minute later, Hank jerks his head up to the feeling of a hand gently shaking his shoulder. There, standing in front of him, is none other than Connor with one of his old, quirky coffee mugs from the early 2000’s firmly grasped in his other hand.

  
“Good morning, Hank,” he says, his voice soft, but cheerful. “I’m sorry you had to wake up alone. I sensed you starting to stir twenty-three minutes ago, and I wanted to have breakfast ready by the time you were up.”

  
“Breakfast?” Hank repeats, staring up as Connor gently eases the mug of coffee into his hands. It’s warm, but not too hot, and, he realizes after he takes a cautious sip, that it’s sweetened with just the right amount of sugar.

  
“I made eggs and some toast,” Connor offers, taking a step back to pull Hank up off the bed. “You should come and eat now while it’s still warm.”

  
Still somewhat in shock, Hank allows himself to be led by Connor back into his kitchen. He sits down in the chair that’s been pulled out for him, and looks at the plate of scrambled eggs and buttered toast that’s still gently steaming in front of him. He takes a bite, pulls a face, and struggles to swallow. “Connor,” he says, pausing to take a sip from his coffee mug, “these eggs are shit.”

 

Connor’s only response is to laugh softly and bustle across the room to press a kiss to the top of Hank’s head.

  
It starts again, not with a sunrise, but with a mid-afternoon lull, where the outside air is warm . Inside his house, Hank feels full. He watches as Connor dances through his house, straightening up all his odds and ends, pausing every now and then to pet Sumo, flitting around Hank like he can’t bear to be too far away from him for too long. He knows, that now that he is not alone, that he can look forward to many nights spent with Connor wrapped up in his arms, that he can look forward to watching Detroit Gears games with Connor pressed against his side, that he can look forward to walking Sumo with Connor once the weather gets a little warmer.

  
He watches, as Connor fiddles with the latches of the windows in the living room, and asks him what he’s doing. His response comes the moment later, when the window opens, and the syrup-sweet air from outside sweeps into his house.

  
“I thought the house could use a little airing out,” Connor comments, settling into what has quickly become his spot on the couch.

  
Hank wastes no time settling in next to him, draping his arm around the back of the couch. He watches the dust as it drifts and blows in the sunlight. “It’s nice,” he says, taking a moment to take a deep, even breath.

 

“It is,” Connor agrees from beside him.

  
From his spot on the couch, Hank cracks a small smile as he nods to himself. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this at peace in his own home, since his home has been filled with anything besides garbage and ghosts. He knows, that no matter how hard he tries, that he won’t be able to shake the memories of Cole that are, at this time, ingrained in the house just as much as they’re ingrained in his very being. But, he thinks that, so long as he has Connor and Sumo, as long as he has this little, newfound family to be with, that it’s ok.

  
“It is,” he repeats again. And, for the first time in five years, Hank allows himself to believe it.


End file.
